


Bittersweet

by PlatinumAndPercocet, semi_sweet



Category: Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Band, Dubious Consent, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-01 02:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12695253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/semi_sweet/pseuds/semi_sweet
Summary: “You’re kind of beautiful.” The words were heavy, delivered with a lopsided smile as Patrick straightened up just a little.  And then it all went to hell.  As soon as he was done speaking, Patrick’s pale face went an unhealthy shade of grey and, although Pete realized what was going on pretty much immediately, he couldn‘t move out of the way before the contents of his stomach were splattered all over his favorite Chucks and up the legs of his jeans. “Sorry.”Life‘s hard as a college freshman when everybody knows you as coke boy. Especially when you yourself can‘t remember where the fuck that came from.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the start of a new story. This one is a bit outside the box, for the both of us, but we are really very excited about it. It is a bit different, a bit fun and with just enough angst to balance things out. 
> 
> Comments, kudos, and questions keep writers going, folks, truly. There are little buttons that you can hit and a blank to fill in that make all the difference in the world, truly.
> 
> Thanks and adoration to everyone that has listened and been supportive since the inception of this idea. It was based off a single sentence in an existing fic and, well.. it has just snowballed. 
> 
> This has been an absolute delight to write and hope you all enjoy it as much as we do.

From a distance, the house didn’t look like anything special, not really; a standard McMansion. If anything, it seemed like the kind of place that was probably more fitting for one of his mother’s bridge lunches than a house party. The historically influenced architecture fairly screamed conspicuous consumption, and the winding driveway, motorized gate, poorly placed and glaringly obvious security cameras and tacky fountain in the circular drive screamed nouveau riche. Patrick hated it. The parade of polo shirts and colored chinos that streamed past seemed almost endless, each guy blurring into the next; all in variations of the ‘You can’t arrest me, my father is a lawyer’ uniform that seemed overwhelmingly popular on campus. It wasn’t like the girls were any different really; perfectly styled hair in colors that either didn’t occur in nature or were just a bit too perfect to be natural, tiny brief tanks and even tinier skirts. It wasn’t that Patrick didn’t appreciate the views, he really did, but this was so far out of his usual scene that it almost felt like he was stuck in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

He wondered, not for the first or even the fifth time what in the fuck he was doing there and then it hit him, quite literally. A large hand knocked back the brim of his hat and he remembered, quite suddenly. Fucking Gabe. Gabe had asked him and, as much as he hated the entire party scene, he couldn’t say no and that tall, Uruguayan fucker was well goddamn aware of that fact.

“Asshole. What do you want? And if you say hurry up, I swear to fuck I will punch you in the dick.” Except he wouldn’t, not really.

Gabe just smiled, all blinding white teeth and trouble. “Give me a little credit here, Twinkerbelle. I know your little legs can’t keep up. Just wanted to make sure you were still back there, Stumph, I wouldn’t want you to get lost in the crowd.” There was nothing that Patrick could say to that even if he wanted to, mostly because Gabe didn’t give him a chance before turning and heading into the throng of people that were spilling out of the front door. The windows glowed golden and Patrick could hear the vaguely familiar strains of some bubblegum trash pop in the air, poorly mixed with what sounded like that weird night janitor at his favorite pizza place, the one who wore his pants backward, screaming about bitches. It was obscene and there was a definite possibility that there was not enough alcohol in all of Evanston to get him drunk enough to actually enjoy the atrocity that was currently assaulting his ears.

Fortunately, being short as hell occasionally had its advantages, and one of those was being able to be fairly undetected; that was something that Patrick was very, very good at. Years of being seen and not heard made for fantastic practice, and he kept his head down, hat pulled as low as he could get while he wove through the crowd, glancing up just enough to make sure that he didn’t run into anyone. That did not, however, stop people from running into him because combining copious amounts of alcohol and a general lack of personal space was a great idea; it made people super aware of their surroundings.

Shuffling backward out of the path of both a wayward elbow and curtain of far too pale to be natural blonde hair, Patrick ducked around a corner into what he hoped was the kitchen; gleaming white tiles, stainless pots hanging from racks overhead, gleaming appliances and more alcohol than most bars. Yup, it was the kitchen. Making his way through the crowd of bodies that were packed, warm and writhing, in the pristinely tiled kitchen, making a beeline for the island in the center as quickly as he could. He was nearly there, could almost taste the just this side of too warm to actually be warm beer, when a cup appeared in his line of vision; a red solo cup, to be exact, because apparently the hosts this evening we're going all out with their cliches. If it meant getting alcohol into his bloodstream faster, Patrick would happily take it. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, far back behind anything he cared to admit, the refrain from a horrid country song reverberated, twangy and annoying. Narrowing his eyes at his own mind, however, the fuck that worked, Patrick turned and back towards where he came and in a single fluid motion, raised the cup to his lips, knocking back a good half of the contents before the taste actually kicked in. The only thing that kept him from spitting and sputtering was several years of practice and he gazed down at the murky mixture in the cup. It looked like something that had been fished out of one of the bayous that he had seen on the family vacation to Louisiana when he was twelve.

It was opaque, a rather revolting shade of green and puce, with what looked like flecks of gold scattered throughout and it tasted like Christmas and vomit. The urge to dump the rest of the cup was strong but a crash and a cheer from the kitchen squashed that right damn quick. Ducking around a corner, Patrick leaned against the wall in a fairly uncrowded hallway, screwed up his eyes and tossed the rest of the revolting beverage back, fighting the urge to gag. Once the burning in his throat stopped and the cup had been deposited on a truly offensive table, Patrick ambled down the hallway, glancing at the portraits that lined the walls. There was something familiar about the faces in them although he couldn’t put his finger on it; blonde, blue-eyed and well-moneyed families were a dime a dozen in Evanston, and although Patrick hadn’t grown up as well off as some, he had never really wanted for much.

Familiar piano drifted to his ears, followed almost immediately by a round of shrieks that could probably make a dog go deaf before the music was turned up a few notches and the singing began, although he used the term very, very loosely. Synchronized yowling in time with Journey was probably a better description. Why drunk girls loved Journey so much, he would never know. Then again, he had never been a drunk girl, nor did he plan to be. Patrick was quite fond of his dick, thank you, it served him very well. Chuckling at his own internal monologue for a moment, he paused in front of a family portrait, tilting the very edge of the frame just a bit so that it hung askew. However restrained the act of vandalism was, it was something and Patrick smiled as he made his way towards the end of the hallway pausing to grasp the banister at the foot of the stairs. His head swam just the slightest bit, and he could feel heat rising in his cheeks. Whatever was in that cup worked quick. Then again, it wasn’t like he had the best tolerance in the world; it did usually take more than one drink to affect him though. Maybe it was the heat cause it was hot as hell in this house, despite the cool fall air that crept through the open windows.

He could hear Gabe’s voice somewhere nearby, singing along with the pretty ditty about one night stands and poor decision making, but he couldn’t actually see him anywhere. Grasping the railing, he made his way up the stairs towards the second-floor landing, squeezing by a group of bouncy and vaguely familiar brunettes with heavily smudged eyeliner and brand new ‘vintage’ ironic shirts, most likely from Hot Topic. Shrugging out of his hoodie, Patrick tossed it on a chair that sat randomly in a corner of the landing that overlooked the massive living room, a ridiculously gaudy thing that seemed more appropriate for Versailles than Illinois.

How Patrick could lose track of a six-foot-four dude in a purple hoodie and neon yellow pants, he did not know, but then again, his vision was a little bit blurry at the moment, slightly fuzzy as though a dog had licked his glasses. Patrick didn’t have a dog, not at school anyway. Penny was at home with his mom and as far as he knew, his beloved Pomeranian couldn’t teleport and he hadn’t SEEN any dogs recently. He would like to though, he missed Penny, she was small and kind of pissy sometimes, but really, really sweet, especially if she liked someone. “She’s me as a dog!” Patrick hadn’t meant to speak out loud, but judging by the look that he got from the trio of blue haired girls to his left, he absolutely had. Oops. He offered a small smile as he ambled past, pulling his glasses off with thick, clumsy fingers and wiping the lenses on the bottom of his shirt. It wasn’t what he was supposed to do but his glasses cloth was back tucked away in his room on campus and he really, really kind of liked seeing. Satisfied at his attempt at clearing the haze, he slipped his glasses back on and blinked. It didn’t work, not even a little. If anything, it was worse.

Huffing, he shoved his hands in his pockets, catching his thumbs in his belt loops as he meandered further down the hall. It was a little bit quieter up here, and cooler. The music didn’t feel so loud up here and he could breathe just a little bit, separated from the crush of bodies on the main floor. His feet were heavy in his sneakers and he frowned as he glared down at them willing himself to move. Once again, it didn’t work. It was strange, in the most pleasant of ways. He felt almost sparkling and fizzy, as though there were glitter and champagne under his skin instead of blood and bone, and his head was light. Maybe, some little voice in his head said, maybe you should sit down. That little voice could get right fucked.

“Ay, yo Stumph! Come on in here for a minute.” He didn’t recognize the voice. Or maybe he did; Patrick wasn’t entirely sure about that, but he followed it anyway, counting his shuffling steps until he leaned up against a doorframe at the end of an impossibly long hall. The fog on his glasses was getting worse, or maybe the lighting was really bad. That must have been it. There was one coherent thought in his cloudy mind, and as he tried to vocalize it, his tongue was lazy and defiant, drawing out the simple syllables and catching on teeth that seemed too big as his vision spun to a bright white.

“Is that Bowie?

It was not Bowie, although that was a mistake that Patrick had never, ever made in his life. That little voice, if it could still pipe up, would have and it would have been blowing whistles, screaming and possibly calling the cops. It was not. It was, instead, sucking on a lollipop. It better not have been grape, that shit was disgusting.

Time moved kind of strangely when he opened his eyes. One minute he was standing in a doorway, slightly confused as to who exactly had called his name; none of the faces were familiar. Then again, they didn’t look quite right either; eyes were too big and smiles were wider than should be possible. Were they touching him? Was that a hand on his shoulder or was it the weight of the alcohol making it feel heavy? No, no, somebody was pushing him. Hey, why were they pushing him? Oh, no, they were just pushing his clothes. Okay, that was… why were they pushing his clothes? No, wait, they were pushing him, too, everybody was pushing... Haha, it was like… it was like on a ride. Patrick had never liked fairground rides, but this was okay. It was like a fairground ride but less scary and more fun! The next minute, he was lying face down on a very, very cozy couch, far cooler than he had been, and possibly missing his clothes. And his hat. Patrick really, really wanted to find his hat. There were hands on his ankles and brushing against his sides, fingers that tickled as they ghosted along his ribs. He laughed, giggled even because there were people touching him and aside from tickling, it felt kinda nice. He had always been ticklish, a fact which Kevin and Megan had taken full advantage of growing up.

“Hey, stay still there for a second, Stumph. Stop squirming, little dude. Put that pretty mouth to use and sing for us again.” Patrick stilled, partly because the hands on his wrists and ankles were joined by one on his lower back, pressing down firmly, and partly because the voice was soft and nice and Patrick liked the feeling of it settling in his brain. Was there... was somebody stroking his ass? A chuckle ran through his body and he couldn‘t help but wiggle his hips at the feeling of a splayed hand against his bare skin. “Stop that!“ Why should he? It felt funny. It felt nice in an odd sort of way. Kinda like chewing raisins felt nice. “I said STOP!“  
‘Ow!‘ a distant voice in Patrick‘s head complained as the hand on his back pressed down harder. There was a moment of something light and powdery and wrong along the curve of his ass, and then a warm brush of breath and Patrick… he giggled again. Because that shit tickled. “Ugh, fuck, that‘s good!“ He tried to turn to see who was talking, but it made his head spin and his eyes go all funny. He wasn‘t sure he liked that.  
“Let me!“ Patrick giggled again when that tickly feeling returned, this time more central, a little higher. His lower back, it started on his lower back and then down and... his chuckle was met by a shiver as another breath ghosted over him.  
Okay, his wrists were starting to hurt a little now. “Sssorry, m-my... could you let go of my arms pl-please?“ nobody replied. Something wet pressed against his skin where the tickly stuff had just been. Patrick squirmed, he couldn‘t help it, it felt weird and was immediately met with a sharp pain against his ass. Fuck, ow!  
“Move over, dick, me next!“

 

 

Pete did not want to be here. In fact, he would rather be LITERALLY anywhere else. Back on campus, at the library, hell even his shitty job at the bookstore. The girl he was with was cute, pretty even, in a generic, sorority girl perfection type of way. She smelled good and was wearing far too little clothing for the Illinois fall. Plus, she kept trying to get her soft little hand in his pants which would have been great, really. Except for the fact that she was SPECTACULARLY boring. Yeah, the beer was decent, yes she was warm and honestly, Pete had a vivid imagination, he could absolutely pretend said hand was bigger, a bit less lotion soft, but as she prattled on insipidly about the broken water heater at her house, Pete finally snapped out of it and batted her hand away.

“It’s not you Lara, really.” Lara? Laura? Lana? One of those, he was sure of it, didn’t look overly disappointed, shrugging her shoulders, tiny and tan against the dark blue straps of her tank top, and pulled out a lip gloss to touch up the artificially pink, sticky vanilla shit that she wore. She was obviously no more upset than he was. Grabbing his hoodie from the chair that it had been tossed on, Pete shrugged it back on, leaving it open over his faded t-shirt and headed towards the door. The well-insulated quiet was shattered once he pulled it open, a wave of music and laughter echoing through the once quiet room. There was a headache starting to throb, dull but steady, and he leaned up against the nearest wall, pressing his palms against his ducked into the nearest door, a guest sitting room if he remembered correctly, pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw pinpricks of bright fireworks. Maybe water would help.

Pete had spent as little time at his neighbor's house as possible, mostly because they were assholes, but he had been here a few times and was pretty sure he remembered the layout, backtracking two doors down the hall, Pete ducked into what he thought was the guest bathroom.  
He could not have been more wrong. It took a minute to realize what the fuck, exactly it was that he was seeing, and even then, a moment longer to form words.

“What in the actual fuck?” It took a lot to make Pete speechless it really did. Even when he KNEW he should shut up, he usually kept talking anyway. But the sight before him was just… wrong on so many levels. The room was crowded, although not nearly as much as it could have been, maybe half a dozen bodies scattered about the horrendously decorated sitting room. Draped face down over a particularly offensive sofa was a man, a kid really, naked as he could possibly be, his skin a pale, pale cream against the deep green of the ugly goddamn settee. There were hands at his wrists and ankles, another in the middle of his back and what looked like… jesus christ, was a line of coke on his ass? Again. What. The. Fuck.

The kid was laughing, although there was something slightly wrong about it and it jangled Pete’s nerves, the tone was too high and breathy to be real. Was he old enough to be here? Where the fuck had they dragged him from?

“Wentz. Just having a bit of fun.” The slimy fuck that spoke did so with a disaffected leer before leaning down and snorting the powder that had been balanced on this kids ass, giving it a slap that was far too fucking hard for anyone's enjoyment. A handprint blossomed against the milk-pale skin, and the kid, because that is all Pete could think of him as, yelped in pain.

“Yeah, no. Fun’s over. Let go.” There was no hesitation in Pete’s voice. Yes, the majority of the guys in the room were bigger than he was, but he didn’t hesitate to throw a punch, and a good one. That was common knowledge and to these assholes very shaky credit, they actually listened, and the hands-on wrists and ankles vanished, although the one in the center of his back lingered for a moment, pressing down harder than necessary.

Pete crossed the room quickly, pausing only to grab the pair of jeans that were very hastily tossed aside before crouching in front of the couch. “Hey, kid. Hey, you awake? Can you sit up for me?” He didn’t want to touch him, not if he could help it, but the soft smile and crooked nod that he received in response to the question kind of blew that right out of the water. Fuck.

“Come on, sit up. We’re gonna get you dressed.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, as though talking to a child which, upon closer inspection, it would seem that he wasn’t, at least he fucking hoped as much. The guy was pretty, really fucking pretty, although now was not the time to appreciate that. His movements were sluggish, almost like he was fighting with himself as he pushed upright, nearly falling onto Pete with a giggle and shit. Pretty boy was sporting a semi and even from where Pete sat, literally, as he struggled to pull the jeans on over this kid’s bare feet and up over his knees, his lizard brain registered that fact and Jesus Christ he better be legal.

Pushing any thought that wasn’t ‘get this guy the fuck out of here’ aside, Pete fastened the wear-worn jeans around his waist and didn’t bother looking for his shirt, instead pulling off his own hoodie and forcing the kid’s floppy arms into it. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now.

“Can you stand?” It was not a difficult question, but the kid just blinked owlishly at him, blue eyes wide and hazy. “Of fucking course, you can’t. Alright, up we go. Arms around my neck.” It took Pete more work than he had anticipated but he finally stood up, cradling the kid against his chest. He was small but soft and surprisingly pliant, bare feet kicking lightly as warm breath tickled against Pete’s neck. He moved slowly out of the now empty room and down the hall towards the stairs, narrowing his eyes at the stares he was receiving. Fuck that. He paused at the top of the stairs, hip against the balustrade as he contemplated the easiest way down when the guy in his arms started singing. Singing, of all the fucking things, along with Neil Diamond which, what the fuck? “Hey. You have a name kid?”

“Patrick.” The single word was slurred, it sounded heavy and carefully measured but it was a start.

“Patrick. Good. Now, you wanna tell me who you came here with so we can get you home?” It may have been a bit much to hope for an answer, but Pete went for it.

The kid-Patrick- hummed another few bars of ‘Sweet Caroline’ before seeming to remember that he had been asked a question. “Gabey Baby.” He giggled again, before launching back into his song and Jesus Christ, Pete’s heart hurt a little bit. But again, a start. There was only one Gabe that Pete knew of and the guy had literally just walked out the door, screaming along to the song that Patrick was slurring against his neck. Alright then.

It took almost three times as long as Pete would have liked to get down the stairs and even remotely close to where Gabe was standing with a cigarette, the blue-white smoke curling into the cold night air.

“Yo, Saporta. Pretty sure this fell out of your pocket. Please fucking tell me he is at least eighteen.” Gabe was all smiles as he turned around, but his face quickly darkened as he realized what he was actually seeing.

“I’m twenty, asshole.” Patrick managed to sound indignant while slurring, a pretty impressive feat if Pete had to admit, and his nose scrunched up.

“Patrick? What the fuck?” Obviously, Gabe had no idea what had happened, and Pete was more than a little thankful. He liked Gabe and it would be a fucking shame to have to beat his ass.

“Long story dude, I found him like this. He was-”

“Gaaabbbeeee!” Patrick seemed to perk up somewhat, at least a little and wriggled against Pete’s grasp until he put him down, although slightly hesitantly.

“Hey, Baby Boy. You wanna tell me what happened here?” Gabe’s voice was gentle, far more than Pete had ever heard it, and he crouched down to Patrick’s eye level.

“I thought I heard Bowie, Penny licked my glasses and Pete helped me.” There was an almost manic quality to the words that tumbled, disjointed, from Patrick’s lips and they made absolutely no sense at all. He suddenly seemed shocked and his hands flew to his head, fingers raking through ginger-hued strands. “I lost my hat, Gabe. I need my hat. Have you seen it?”

“You’re missing a whole lot more than your hat, Patrick. What happened?” Gabe had never really been one to display vast amounts of patience, at least not in the years that Pete had known him, but there was a kindness in his voice as he spoke to Patrick that belied the stoner-party animal image that he usually put forth.

“But it’s my hat, Gabey, I need it.” The genuine anguish in Patrick’s voice almost had Pete turning tail to go and get the hat that seemed so important to him, but a warm hand around his wrist stopped him short. “Wait! You can’t go.” Pete shot Gabe a look, only to find him just as confused, as Patrick gave Pete’s hand a tug, pulling him closer and almost falling on his ass in the process. “I have to tell you something. C’mere.” Another tug on Pete’s arm and a stumble back against Gabe, but Patrick was still on his feet, however unsteadily.

“I was gonna go get your hat, Trick. What else do you need?” Pete was hoping, although slightly in vain he presumed, that he was actually going to get an answer.

“You’re kind of beautiful.” The words were heavy, delivered with a lopsided smile as Patrick straightened up just a little. And then it all went to hell. As soon as he was done speaking, Patrick’s pale face went an unhealthy shade of grey and, although Pete realized what was going on pretty much immediately, he couldn‘t move out of the way before the contents of his stomach were splattered all over his favorite Chucks and up the legs of his jeans. “Sorry.” The apology was so quiet it hurt, and Patrick looked unbelievably sad and small.

“It’s okay, I promise. Come on let’s just get you somewhere to lay down okay? I don’t live far. Gabe, can you-” Pete hadn’t even finished talking when Gabe scooped up a near crying Patrick, as they headed down the driveway.

“Say no more dude, just lead the way. I’m gonna have to switch off with you but I got him for now.”

The walk was brief, maybe ten minutes or so, and the asphalt was cold and cracked under Pete’s bare feet. He had left his puke covered shoes at the house, throwing them into the pretentious as fuck fountain just be-fuck-ing cause, and by the time Pete was punching in his door code around a sleeping Patrick in his arms, his prior anger had returned. It was pushed down for the time being as he carried Patrick through his dark house by memory, years of sneaking in and out at ridiculous hours finally paying off.

It wasn’t until Gabe finished tucking him into bed, changed from his vomit covered jeans and Pete’s hoodie into a faded Metallica shirt and a pair of Batman pajama pants that Pete finally let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding as he leaned against the doorframe of one of the spare guest rooms. Patrick looked so fucking small.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Pete’s question was little more than a whisper, but Gabe heard it and joined him, draping a heavy arm over Pete’s shoulders.

“Yeah, I think so… just a bit off his head right now. To be honest, there is something nice about the quiet.” Gabe’s grin was bright in the moonlight that filtered in through the blinds and Pete shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from decking his friend, settling for shooting him an angry glare. “Kidding. He’ll be fine. Now come on, Pequeno, make me coffee because I don’t know how to work your fancy ass machine. It’s gonna be a long night.”

Despite the nickname and the sick that was still on his feet, Pete shrugged and headed to the kitchen finally flipping on a light as he made his way to the espresso machine that gleamed on the granite countertop. His parents were away, their annual vacation to Kingston, and Pete had never been happier to be alone. He was good with bullshit but this would be a hard sell even for him.

It wasn’t until twenty minutes and two shots of espresso later, whilst Pete was under shower spray that was too hot and Gabe was sat in the spare bedroom watching over Patrick as he hopefully slept, did he realize the size of the mess that he had on his hands.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kids, welcome to the second installment of this... whatever this is. Thanks for giving this weird thing a chance, we're really enjoying it (even if we're sick, stressed and tried but hey we have something in common with our characters). We really really hope you enjoy this and whatever else we have in store for you ;) So, let's re-join the action...... in Pete's kitchen

Pete‘s house was large. Not huge, not unreasonably gigantic, but pleasantly big. No surprise, really, it was in like the nicest suburb of America or some shit like that, a lovely, brick house with a big garden, a double-garage, and bedrooms that were bigger than Gabe’s whole flat, which was probably one of the reasons he spent so much time at his friend’s place. Currently, he was sitting on one of the bar stools at the island counter in the kitchen, sipping his coffee. The curtains were drawn, mainly because Pete still had this underlying fear of a face suddenly appearing at the window. A lot of people had that, apparently, but he figured at 24 he should actually be over it. 

“Do you know who… who they were?“ Pete shook his head. He‘d probably recognize the one who‘d spoken but he couldn‘t place a name to the face, nor did he know where he‘s seen him before. Fellow law student, maybe. Seemed the type, greasy, slimy, entitled and preying on the weak. Ye ah , he‘d make for a great corporate lawyer someday. 

“So, Gabe“, his friend focused on him in the dim lighting, “Who‘s the little dude sleeping in my bed upstairs? And why don‘t I know him?“ 

 

Gabe shrugged, balancing his cup between his fingers as he swivelled around. “Just a friend of mine. Used to be neighbours when we were little kids, so it’s something of a sibling-esque relationship, I guess. He pisses me off, I piss him off, but somehow we’re stuck with each other.” He took a sip of his drink and began examining the photographs on the wall he’d seen a million times before. Pete’s eyes were still fixed on him, long face, long neck, long body, long  _ everything _ . Pretty much the opposite to Pete in that respect, but scarily similar in almost every other way. “And why don’t I know him?” he asked again. 

 

“Just started. Dunno, he’s doing like sound production or something, it’s weird. Bit of a drama kid in that way.” Cute. First year and already off his head on god knows what. No, not cute, Pete, he literally puked on your shoes, definitely not cute. 

 

“First party I take it?”    There was a touch of nostalgia to Pete’s voice, although not the good kind; Instead of hazy, happy memories, he was reminded of vomit and a very long night spent on a dirty floor. 

“Yep,” Gabe was still scanning the photographs, most of which Pete didn’t actually ever approve of being put up there.  _ Especially _ not the one at his uncle’s wedding, god, that  _ hair _ … “Never knew he was such a drinker”  The tall guy laughed lightly, disbelievingly more than anything, “ G uess he’s all grown-up now.” Pete distinctly remembered the soft tone he’d heard Gabe use and the horror on his face when he’d carted Patrick over. 

_ “Hey, Baby Boy. Wanna tell me what happened here?” _

“Earth to Peter? Hello? You listening?” Pete shook himself from the daydream… well, it was night  but it still applied. It didn’t count as a new day until you actually slept, that was just the rules.   “Huh? Sorry, tired.” 

“Yeah... “ Gabe was back to staring at nothing and this time, Pete decided to join him. 4:18. Christ on a bike. Pete couldn't stifle the yawn. “You wanna go to bed? I can keep tabs on him, it’s fine.” 

Pete shook his head at the offer. “Nah, I’m not gonna abandon you. Besides, my bed is occupied.” 

“Yeah…” It was obvious that he was worried ; despite Gabe being, well GABE.  He was a fucking softie at heart, especially when it came to people he cared about.   Thinking back to how gently he’d spoken to Patrick, how he’d been nothing like Gabe: The rowdy stoner, Pete could understand why. The kid must be like a little brother to him. 20. Four years younger than the two of them. When you’re a child, four years is quite the gap. How would he feel if Anna was dragged over to him, drunk off her head and humiliated beyond her momentary comprehension?  It was more than a slightly unpleasant thought. 

“I’m gonna go check on him, see if he’s choked on his own vomit yet.” Pete dumped his empty cup in the dishwasher before heading back through the kitchen, past Gabe, out into the hallway and up the stairs. 

 

Pete’s bedroom was facing out onto the street. It was on the corner of the house, meaning he had two windows and plenty of light. It was also - unfortunately - adjacent to his parents’ room for some fucking reason. Why they’d thought it was a good idea to stick a then-teenage boy into the room next door was beyond him. He dreaded to think what had bled through those walls late at night. As he approached the wooden door now,there was nothing but silence beyond. For a split second, he was almost certain Patrick  _ had _ choked on his own vomit and he’d somehow have to break the tragic news of the boy’s early demise to his oldest friend. However, when he creeked the door open and listened for a bit, his ears picked up the gentle sound of soft breathing, occasionally coupled with a tiny little snore that made the corners of Pete’s mouth twitch just a bit.

He crept further into the room, the light of the full moon fell directly onto his bed so he could just see a tuft of blonde hair and white skin poking out from below his huge duvet. When Patrick made a little grumbling noise and rubbed his scrunched-up face, Pete’s faint smile turned into a wide, toothy grin and he  _ really _ had to restrain himself not to stroke over his cheek. Instead, he settled with pulling the curtains closed and making sure Patrick was completely tucked in before reluctantly turning back around and tip-toeing out of the room. 

“How is he?” Gabe tried very hard to sound casual, but Pete didn’t miss the way he rose out of his seat a little the moment he stepped into the room, or the concerned undertone of his voice. “Well, he’s not choked on his own vomit” He strolled over to the little table they had their breakfast on and sat down on one of the white chairs, “ H e’s not thrown up at all since, which means he’s gonna have one hell of a fucking hangover tomorrow. But he’s fine. Fast asleep, all tucked in.” The sound of every bit of air escaping Gabe’s body as he allowed himself to relax filled the room. “How late is it?” Pete checked his watch. It was digital, he’d got it for his 21st birthday and it did have a little button that made it light up, which was handy. “4:49.” Gabe groaned loudly and smacked his head against the island counter in frustration. The first light was beginning to show between the trees at the back of Pete’s garden. “I swear to god, if Twinkerbelle survives the night, I’m gonna kill him myself!”

  
  


Twinkerbelle did survive the night. Barely. Admittedly, both Pete and Gabe were fast asleep in their seats when he finally emerged, slamming doors and stumbling down  unfamiliar corridors until he thumped into the kitchen at 1 p. m. Pete didn’t manage much more of a reaction than cracking open an eye. He caught sight of a very, very queasy-looking Patrick. So queasy, in fact, that he was swaying on the spot. So queasy, in fact, that Gabe sprang up like something had bitten his arse and launched towards the kid before he fell face-first onto the tiled floor. It was enough to get Pete to lift his head. 

“Hey, hey, easy there, tiger. How you feeling?” Patrick just shook his head in response,  staring at Gabe like he had just asked the question in Swahili.  . “Not great?”

“”Like a total piece of shit. M-my… hnnng… fuck.” He was slurring his words and as he spoke, his arm clenched over his gut and he doubled-over like he was in severe pain. Fucking dumbass, why the hell did he drink so much? “Patrick, look, look at me.” Gabe took the kid’s face between his hands and held it close to his. “Can you focus?” Pete wasn’t awake enough to be able to see their expressions clearly, but he could hear the frown in his friend’s voice. “Fuck, you’re still off your head…” He rushed to get a glass of water once he’d inelegantly plopped the blonde down in the chair opposite Pete; he looked like he could barely hold himself up. “Drink this, I’m gonna get you food.”

  
  


Patrick, as light as he was already seemed to go even whiter; if this kid got any paler he would be translucent. 

 

“Shit.  Saporta, trashcan!”  Pete barked the order louder than he had intended, but he had already had to wash more clothes than he wanted; spending the day on his hands and knees cleaning this pretty kid’s puke from the bright white kitchen grout  did not sound like a good way to spend any part of his already abbreviated day. 

 

Gabe moved with a grace and speed that belied his usual languid stride, grabbing the bin from the cabinet under the center island and skidded across the floor on his stocking feet, sliding to a stop with it just moments before Patrick sent the contents of his stomach spattering into the white garbage bag. For a tiny kid, Twinkerbelle had a TON of shit in his stomach.  It was fucking disgusting. 

 

“There you go, let it out Baby Boy.”  The words were barely audible, but Gabe had no concept of an indoor voice at the best of times; he was probably trying to whisper.  It wasn’t working. 

 

Patrick, for his part, just groaned into the trash can.  Pete felt sorry for him, he really did.  The first hangover was always bad and this kid was topping off what was probably the worst night of his life. Leaving Gabe to whispered whatever the fuck he was saying to Patrick, Pete moved swiftly through the house, grabbing the spare mouthwash that his mom kept in one of the guest bathrooms as well as a toothbrush and paste; judging by Patrick’s stunning digestive pyrotechnics, he was gonna need that and a lot more. He took the back stairs to the second floor, ducking into his room to change as quickly as possible and search for something that might fit the kid currently communing with his rubbish bin.  He was shorter than Pete, which was a feat in itself, but heavier as well, in a nice way. A cute way. It suited him, Pete understood why Gabe called him Twinkerbelle. 

Shaking the lecherous thoughts from his mind and grabbing an old pair of soccer sweatpants and a t-shirt, he paused at the door, dropping a knit hat on top of the pile.  It was something he had bought on a whim and had never worn.  It may not have been the hat that Patrick had been so desperately searching for last night but it would do.   

 

Still a bit hazy, Pete headed back to the kitchen, arms laden down with what amounted to a peace offering for the very, very sick stranger in his kitchen, Pete paused in the doorway, blinking as he found the breakfast nook table empty. The fuck?  There had been two people there when he had left a few minutes ago, right?  Goddamnit, if Gabe had somehow given him absinthe again…

 

A groan from the floor interrupted Pete’s little trip down a green-tinged memory lane, and he headed further into the room only to see a pair of very, very white feet sticking out from behind the island. 

 

“We’re down here.”  Gabe was so matter of fact in his delivery that Pete was sure he was fucking kidding. He wasn’t.  Dropping the stack of clothing and toiletries that he had carried onto the table, Pete looked down in curiosity. Gabe and Patrick were sprawled out on the kitchen floor, the latter was shirtless which, Pete was not complaining cause Patrick was really pretty, damn… very pretty. “Trickster missed the can on round two and got his shirt instead.  And then the vertigo kicked in, plus the floor is nice and cool.  Whoever is cleaning these days, your mom needs to give them a bonus, man.” 

 

“Gabe. Shut the fuck up.”  They were the first words that  Pete had heard from Patrick since last night and his voice was WRECKED in that very specific and very familiar way that only puking and too much booze and, in fact, puking up too much booze could accomplish. 

 

Grabbing the hat from the mess on the table, Pete plopped  down on the floor beside the sick boy and gingerly rested it on the blonde’s head. “You gonna be okay, Kid?” 

 

“Yeah.” Patrick looked up from his spot on the floor and the word was a groan as he  wrapped his arms around his stomach, cheek pressed against the floor. The way he was peeping out from below the floppy brim of the cap was almost as sweet as the sight of soft, blonde hair falling over his baby-cheeks. 

As sweet as he was to look at, the kid was sick as fuck, definitely on the “craving death” side of the hangover scale, the sort Pete himself had never accomplished merely with alcohol.  Pete, in his more wayward youth with Gabe, had had his fair share of ill-advised chemical romances and they had almost always ended in something close to what the kid who was now curled around himself on the floor. The poor kid must have NO tolerance whatsoever at all, he was gonna struggle getting through college if he could barely stomach a beer.

Unless…

Patrick had been really out. Like, not just tipsy or drunk or even totally plastered out. Pete remembered the way he’d been gazing around the room with half-dead eyes clearly, the way he’d struggled but not really and the types of boys surrounding him. The pieces were starting to click into place.  Shit. 

 

Pete carefully weighed his options, sparing Gabe a glance. “Maybe we should get you checked out, Pat. You seem pretty out of it.”

 

“My name is Patrick.” The blond grint the words out through clenched teeth, obvious disdain for the nickname nearly dripping from the words.  “And whatever the fuck you want, I just want to stop feeling like death. This is all your fault, Gabe.” 

 

Gabe, for his part, did not laugh, a feat which Pete knew took a considerable effort on his part.  Instead, he just sat up and folded his long form into himself, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around his knees. “Whatever you say, Patrick.  Just… let’s go get you checked out, okay? Please.” 

 

Patrick grumbled a reply and unrolled from the ball he had curled up into, very, very carefully standing up.  His knees wavered and Pete was sure he was going to come crashing down again, but a grasp of the table and a steadying breath seemed to help at least a little. 

 

Apparently modesty took a backseat to feeling like you got hit by a Mack truck and Patrick stripped right there in the middle of the kitchen. Out of politeness he was sure would go unnoticed, Pete made a show of averting his eyes, as did Gabe, but he had already seen the kid face down and ass up while an apparent stranger snorted coke off his naked body whilst he was probably drugged out of his mind. A peek now that he could actually consent wasn’t that bad right? Right. And Pete could just book that ticket straight to hell right now. 

 

Patrick was soft in all the right places, his skin so pale that the blue of his veins could be seen almost clearly. He was clumsy, too, although whether that was due to the hangover or a natural proclivity, Pete couldn’t quite tell, but he did have the good grace to look away as his unexpected houseguest tugged his sweatpants up.  That took a lot of restraint for Pete. Gabe pushed himself up and offered a hand, which Pete quickly took, standing while making sure to keep his his eyes off Patrick as he pulled on a wear softened t-shirt.  It was one of Pete’s favorites actually, with a Thundercats lunchbox on the front, the image cracked with age and washing but still clear. 

 

“I don’t have my shoes.  Or my glasses.” Patrick’s voice seemed impossibly small as Pete shoved his keys alongside his wallet in his back pocket, freezing as both he and Gabe stared at the blond who seemed at the same time to be drowning in the borrowed clothes and pulling at them as they clung to his body. “My wallet is gone. And my hat.”  Ouch. That last bit tugged at Pete’s heart in the strangest of ways; he had heard Patrick ask for the missing hat more times than he could count last night, giggly, drunk and quite probably high, but now, as he stood barefoot in the sober light of day it was just sad.  A flicker of anger sparked in Pete’s chest and he saw Gabe’s jaw tighten. 

 

“We’ll get it back for you, Trick, I promise.”  Patrick seemed to be only slightly placated, tugging on the hem of his borrowed shirt and adjusting the cap on his head in the same series of nervous gestures. “

Can we just… can we fucking go?  I want my bed.  And a black coffee.  And to sleep for a goddamn lifetime.” Pete couldn’t argue with that and he just nodded, shoving his feet onto his sneakers and sliding Patrick over a pair of sport sandals that he had left lying by the door for whatever the reason. The sooner they got going, the sooner Patrick would feel better.  At least that was the lie that Pete told himself as he stepped back to let the smaller man, nearly dwarfed by Gabe, outside.  He pretended that he didn’t see the way that Patrick winced at the bright mid day sunlight despite the borrowed RayBans, or that the blonde hadn’t nearly tripped over the too long hem of his pants with an impressive but indignant string of curses.  Pete was really, really good at pretending. 

 

The ride back to campus was long and silent save for the music that flowed from the speakers.  Pete let ‘The Queen Is Dead’ play on repeat until he pulled to a stop next to the squat, brick building that housed the clinic.  Nobody complained. Getting Patrick, who was now a bit more awake and even more queasy thanks to the car ride, from the car in through the glass doors proved to be another task entirely.  Two bushes were christened with caustic smelling bile on the short walk, and Pete was overjoyed that he had thought to pocket the mouthwash which ended up being sprayed all over the sidewalk.  Better than his shoes again. Sidestepping the the mess on the pavement, Pete followed Gabe and Patrick into the clinic, pulling the door closed behind him. 

 

The clinic smelled like overly chilled air, antiseptic, illness and regret;  it was a combination that seemed to linger in  every doctor’s office and hospital that Patrick had ever been in and the one on the DePaul campus seemed to be no different.  The walls were a disgusting attempt at being soothing, a green the same shade as the fake lime-flavoured Tums that he took by the handful when he had an exam.  They were not calming or soothing, neither the walls or the antacid;They both tried for serenity in some form and missed by a mile. He wanted nothing more than to be back in his own bed, or what passed for it in his dorm room, without his weird roommate, who had a habit of not showing up for two weeks only to never leave the room for the consecutive month, in his own goddamn clothes and glasses and his motherfucking hat. It was distinctly possibly Patrick was more than a bit of a baby when he was sick; and he was SICK.  He’d had hangovers before, sure; everyone does at some point but this… this was so much worse. His stomach had been rolling since before he’d even woken up, which was easily explained away by the weird as fuck lonely boat captain dream, but it also felt like there were very small men in steel toed boots River Dancing with chainsaws in his head.  Add in a mouth drier than the Sahara, vision that was even blurrier than usual and clothing that was at the same time too big and too small and Patrick  was NOT having a good day.  

 

Although from what he could remember, and it wasn’t much at all, he hadn’t had a particularly good night, either.  He had nothing but flashes; momentary stills and disjointed images of a whole bunch of shit that didn’t make sense at fucking all. He remembered everything up until his ridiculously upper middle class, white boy rebellion but after that… nothing.  It was like someone had poured acid on the filmstrip of his memories after that and he was left trying to make sense of what had remained; it was not much.  

 

This morning was a bit clearer, although clouded by abject misery.  It had what could have possibly been bright spots, more laying on a stranger’s cold kitchen floor with Gabe than anything else, but at least he could fucking REMEMBER. 

 

“Mr. Stumph? You can come back now.”  The medical assistant who called him back managed to sound both bored and overly peppy.  He would have laughed at the combination if her fucking scrub top wasn’t making his head spin even more.  The mix of neons and smiling cartoon kittens was fucking heinous.  

 

“Hey, P you want us to wait, or?” Gabe sounded cautious.  Gabe never sounded cautious and it halted Patrick in his tracks.  What the actual dick?

 

“Yeah, I’ll be- it shouldn’t take long.”  Patrick tugged on the hem of his borrowed shirt, the soft cotton clinging uncomfortably to him as he shuffled behind Neon Kitty Scrubs, her blue streaked ponytail swinging,  and went about following her directions.  They were simple, straightforward and ones that he had heard time and time again. Weight, pulse, blood pressure, respirations; all of the things that proved that you were in fact human, even if you felt the opposite of it. 

 

“Alright, what brought you in today?”  The pep that Neon Kitty had had in her voice was gone, it’s presence inspired in no small part by Gabe and Pete.  His name WAS Pete, right?  Jesus Fucking Christ in a low rise jeans. 

 

“I -ah.  I went to a party last night and I think… I thought I only had one drink but I blacked out and I feel like absolute fucking shit this morning and I just… my friends brought me here?”  The words were low, a barely audible mumble, but there was a soft click in the girl’s throat that had him suddenly feeling not quite right.  Or even more wrong; whichever. It was gone in a blink though, and Neon Kitty was up and gone, with assurances that the PA would be in soon before pulling the door closed. 

 

Soon.  Soon was never actually soon in doctor’s office speak; it was as though medical professionals worked on a different time than regular, lowly humans. According to the clock on the wall, Patrick had been waiting near forty-five minutes, swinging his sandaled feet against the metal table the whole time,  when there was FINALLY a brisk knock at the door and the PA came in, all white coat and pepsodent smile. He asked the same rote questions as Neon Kitty Scrubs had, making all of the appropriate hums and nods when needed, and handed Patrick a cup to piss in and directed him to the bathroom  with a pointed look because… what? He looked like he was going to take a goddamn leak in the exam room? Whatever, Patrick left the water on a slow trickle in the bathroom after he was done just because. As much as he hadn’t wanted to, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror by the sink.  Paler than usual, his hair a mess peeking out from under someone else’s hat, in someone else’s clothes and with something that far surpassed bags under his eyes; he was coming up on a full set of luggage and it did NOT suit him. He turned away as soon as he could. 

 

Back in the exam room, White Coat rattled off some medical jargon that Patrick was far too miserable to even try and process, and welcomed NKS back with a knowing smile.  She drew some blood while he gave him a very fucking painful injection with what felt like a goddamn javelin straight into his ass.  Doctors and their various underlings were all sadists who enjoyed playing God and making lesser people scream. 

 

After being poked, prodded and signing an entire ream of fucking paper, Patrick was given the okay to go, and he shuffled back to the waiting room, pulling the slightly too big hoodie tight around him and  pulling the borrowed hat down over eyes that were already hidden behind dark sunglasses. 

 

“What’d they say?  Did they tell you anything?  Do you need meds?  Where do we need to go?”  Gabe spoke at a breakneck pace, far more familiar than the low concern he had heard earlier. It made Patrick feel better, if only a bit.  

 

“No I just… I want to go home.  I want to sleep in my bed and put on my clothes and take a fucking shower and just… I want to sleep. Please.”  He sounded pathetic, there was no other word for it and, if his eyes had been uncovered, Pete and Gabe would have noticed the shine from tears that were quickly blinked back. 

 

No words were spoken as they shuffled out into the late afternoon sunlight, the air chillier as the sun started to dip towards the horizon. The janitorial staff was proficient at their jobs, Patrick noted absently, the only sign of his earlier embarrassment were wet patches on the concrete and some streaks in the shrubs.  It seemed, Patrick thought as he closed his eyes in the back seat of Pete’s car, quite fitting, although he couldn’t figure out why.  That could wait, right now he just wanted to sleep. So much so that even the hard, scratchy car seat doubled as his bed for the ride back home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are very appreciated! If you wanna contact us privately, our tumblrs are allkindsofplatinumandpercocet and scmi-sweet


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Patrick is a hermit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, Y'all! We are back again with the next installment of this little tale. 
> 
> Comments and kudos make the world go round, seriously.
> 
> This has not been technically beta read, but Grammarly is a thing.
> 
> Much thanks and endless love to SnitchesAndTalkers, Laudanum_Cafe, and Das_verlorene_kind for their support, encouragement and for being their all-around amazing selves.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to read and review so far, we hope you enjoy.

Patrick had nearly fallen out of Pete’s car Saturday evening after leaving the campus clinic with no more answers than he started with. He still felt far too much like shit to appreciate the riot of purples and oranges that streaked the sky as the sun set, skulking to his dorm room and realizing that, of fucking course, he didn’t have his keys. He didn’t have anything. Biting back both bile and pride, he knocked quietly on the door until his roommate let him in. Head down, he spared the other boy a glance along with a small, forced smile and trugged in his ill fitting clothes to his side of the room. 

Finding a half full water bottle and a beloved bottle of tylenol PM, he downed two, three, okay four of the blue capsules with a slug of tepid water. It was two too many, true, but it was basically Benedryl, and a small dose at that so double wouldn’t hurt, and in this case, could only help. Not like it could get much worse, anyway. Item one on his very, very brief to do list completed, Patrick rummaged in his abbreviated set of drawers for a fresh set of clothes, the pants soft and plaid and Bowie’s face gazing, worn and faded up at him from the t-shirt. One day he would replace the garment, but that day was absolutely not today. He shoved a pair of boxers into his shower caddy alongside his waterproof headphones and then stopped cold, again, as he realized he didn’t have his goddamn phone. Fuck all of the fucking things. Did he look like he could fucking afford a new phone right now?

With a huff of frustration, he just about unearthed a rather obsolete ipod from the depths of his laptop bag, stuffed down there God knows when. It barely had a charge, but it was better than silence or, even worse, other people’s voices and it had most of his basic albums on, so it would have to do for now. Shoving the headphones in his ears, Patrick rigged the lock on the door as to not bother Steve again and headed towards the shower room. The usual noise in the dim and musty halls was muffled by the earbuds, not that that was necessary, oddly enough, Saturday nights were usually far quieter than one would expect. Then again, most people had already headed out for whatever debauchery they may have had planned, leaving only the lost and lonely behind. That was a group that Patrick was happy to inhabit, at least tonight. 

The lights clicked on as soon as the wooden door swung open, guaranteeing at least some modicum of privacy. Blindly swatting at the wall, Patrick turned them off and made his way through the dark to the line of stalls that was along the far wall of the large room. Communal showers had always bothered him, thank you high school gym class, and he had started showering in off times, more for convenience than anything else. The dark helped as well. There was something peaceful about it, and showering sans lights was a habit he had picked up long ago during a time where he wouldn’t be home before midnight, soaked in sweat and dirt from whatever shitty show they’d played in some back-alley bar that paid them in beer and pizza slices.   
Cranking the handle as far as he could over to the left and simultaneously jumping out of the way of the icy spray, Patrick let the water heat up as he stripped, hanging Pete’s borrowed pants and t-shirt onto one of the empty hooks at the outside of the shower stall. His towel took up another, the bigger and fluffier of the two anyway, whilst a rather threadbare one was draped in front of the shower entrance itself, flirting with the slightly mildewy curtain. The hoodie and hat however, well, those got their own hook, far from any errant spray. They were cozy and warm and oddly untainted. And they smelled really good, although Patrick fought with himself not to admit that. Flipping the ridiculously old ipod on, he adjusted the earbuds and smiled softly as Prince began singing in his ears, just a little on the side of too loud. It was serene, it was peaceful, it was perfect.

Bracing himself with his caddy in one hand, the curtain was pulled back and Patrick reached his free fingers under the spray, not knowing whether to brace for icy cold or blisteringly hot; there was never any happy medium. He received the latter and was more than a bit thankful for it, despite the protest of his skin as he stepped under the nearly scalding water. It was hot, too hot, and he could smell the chemical tang of minerals and the traces of a million other boys hanging in the air. He hated it. Flipping the cap on his shower gel, he squirted some, too much really, onto the ridiculous pouf his mother had insisted on giving him and twisted it in his hands until he could feel the rich lather and the spicy, slightly sweet perfume of the soap flood over him, pushing out any of the lingering scents that hung in the air. 

He scrubbed under the hot water, swiping and rinsing more than usual, as though the action itself would somehow erase the snippets of memories that he had floating in his mind, not making any sense or with any context; it didn’t work. He did it again. And again. And again. On his fourth round of washing, his skin screamed from the harshness of his hands and the heat of the water. If he there had been light, Patrick would have noticed the bright red that was usually milky-pale, and the dark bruises that stood starkly around his wrists and ankles. He had never been more happy for the dark.   
When the water finally began to cool and Bowie started to slow in his ears, crooning about a god awful small affair, he finally turned his attention to his hair, squeezing his eyes shut against the suds as they streamed down his face and finished just as the music finally sputtered to a stop with a crackle. 

He repeated his ritual in reverse, drying quickly against the frigid air of the shower room, despite the steam that hung thick, and struggled into his dry clothes, the cotton catching uncomfortably on still damp skin, it felt a little too close for comfort. Still in the borrowed shower shoes, Patrick shoved his arms through the oversized hoodie he had borrowed and yanked the woolen cap over his wet hair. It would be a goddamn mess when he woke up, but that was quite literally the least of his concerns right now. Patrick was never one for bring naked, he didn’t enjoy the sensation of nothing between himself and the outside, felt vulnerable even when nobody else was around, but right now, the clothes felt stifling as they clung to him. 

The meds he had taken were just barely starting to take effect, tickling just slightly at the edges of his consciousness and blurring what little vision that he had slightly, making everything pleasantly fuzzy in that way that you felt just before sleep or after having one drink. Actually no, scratch that last bit. Never had Patrick been more thankful for the bouts of insomnia that he had suffered during his two years of ill-fated hiatus before starting college, coupled with shared beds, damp rooms and a ringing in his ears he’d never quite managed to budge. Gathering his mess, he carefully made his way from the relative darkness and solitude of the showers into the grey hall with its blue doors, squinting against the bright lights that suddenly blurred his vision and pulling his cap down as low as he could while he headed the brief distance to his room. The door was still stuck open, thank you cheap locks, and Patrick barely spared Steve a glance as he slipped inside, locking it behind him. His wet towels and Pete’s clothes were dropped unceremoniously into his laundry hamper to be dealt with later, and his caddy returned to its shelf in the ridiculously tiny closet he could just about squeeze a few pairs of jeans and maybe two week’s worth of tops into. Shoes were kicked off, hoodies zipped and, with a few clicks on the Macbook that sat beside his bed, his ‘songs for sleeping’ playlist was in his ears. 

There were so many things he should do right now, and Patrick knew it. He needed to report his keys and wallet stolen to campus security. He needed to call his bank. Fuck, he needed a phone. All of that, however, took a backseat for the time being. As the medication spread through Patrick’s bloodstream, he tucked himself under a mountain of comforters, hat still on his head and hands lost in the sleeves of a sweatshirt that held hints of bitter smoke, chemical wood and mint gum, and closed his eyes, singing along almost silently to the music that flowed through his ears. A cold and broken Hallelujah indeed. 

Patrick effectively hid for two and a half days. His chemical induced stupor knocked him out for fourteen hours straight and when he woke up, the noontime sun was streaming in the windows, his eyes were gummy and his goddamn bladder was close to bursting. He fought through the medicated haze to stumble out of his bed towards the bathroom before he ended up wetting himself, just to add a cherry on top of his pile of utter humiliation. 

Feeling almost human once he had peed and brushed his teeth, and with a shitty cup of coffee in hand thanks to the nearly third hand keurig that stayed stashed under his bed during room checks, Patrick scribbled an actual to do list in the front of one of his notebooks. It was far, FAR longer than he wanted to consider, and ended with ‘Remember what the fuck happened.’ underlined. In red ink. Twice. Not that he was 100% certain he wanted to know what had happened. Unsurprisingly, the threat of red pen only worked when it was coming from school teachers who had no actual authority, aside from the ability to use said red ink. 

It took Patrick nearly a day and a half to check off everything but that last item from his list. He had bagged off his only monday class, a pointless freshman lecture that he could ace with his eyes closed, and spent the time alternately napping, trying to restore the contacts on his new phone - R. I. P. his bank account - and finishing up three papers for his English and music theory classes. It was mindless busywork, the kind Patrick only indulged in when he really, REALLY didn’t want to think, and it worked. For a little while anyway. 

Eventually, the need for food that contained actual vitamins and nutrients won out over the loathing of being around people; there was only so long someone could subsist on ramen, coffee and redbull, even in that someone was a twenty year old college freshman. Changing from his pajamas into jeans and a reasonably clean shirt, Patrick shoved his feet into his second favorite pair of sneakers, tugged the same cap over his head he’d been wearing for days and traded his spare glasses for shades before heading out the door, brand new school ID, phone, keychain and some cash in his pocket. His R.A., a jovial, although possibly perpetually stoned senior named Joe, had been super fucking helpful, beyond what Patrick had expected, and the forms were filed for new keys and and ID before he could even blink, both items slipped under his door during one of his random naps. 

It was cold outside, as was expected for this time of year, and Patrick relished the slight bite of the wind against his cheeks as he made his way to the dining hall. He’d plugged his headphones into his phone and the music in his ears drowned out any of the traffic and chatter around him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t actually notice the people that were milling about. On the contrary, he was exceedingly aware of them, more specifically their glances. Patrick wasn’t one that was used to being looked at; he didn’t like it, actually, not even in the slightest. He tended to melt into the background as much as possible, not a hard feat considering he was a short, chubby, average-looking guy with terrible hair, even during his year and a half of touring with is mediocre band before starting school he’d done his best to stay out of the limelight as much as possible. It was easy to hide behind a drum kit, especially with a hat pulled low over his face and without the glasses he desperately needed to see anything. If you couldn’t see the people looking at you, then they weren’t really looking. At least that was what Patrick had told himself. But now, as he made his way through the food line, there was no drum kit to hide behind and, even though he had on his sunglasses, he could still feel the stares boring into him. He took off his headphones, as was dictated, while he ordered his bowl of soup and made his salad, picking the best-looking of the rather mediocre vegetable selection at the salad bar, knowing he was at least safe from worms considering how decidedly not-organic the food was. There was a quiet in the vast dining hall that seemed far too unnatural. Then again, it was one o’clock on a random Tuesday afternoon right in the middle of lectures; the place wasn’t exactly full. But it still seemed just the slightest bit off. 

Paying for his meal and heading to a table, Patrick dropped his tray before filling a cup with ice water from the soda fountain. There was a line there, as always, and there was something about the blue-haired girl in front of him that niggled at the back of his mind. He knew her from somewhere, but he couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t until she turned around, bright pink painted lips twisted into the slightest, condemning smile, that he remembered; she had been at the party on Friday. It wasn’t much of a realization, but it was something for sure, more than he’d had before, a nice reassurance that his brain wasn’t totally fucked, and he filed blue-haired girl away on his ‘think about it, asshole’ list as he filled his cup. 

The remainder of his meal was much the same, quiet save for the music in his ears, and he had scrolled through his texts with Gabe in between bites, glancing up every now and then to catch another person either openly staring at him or guiltily glancing away. More often than not, it was girls that looked away, while the guys, none of whom he fucking knew, stared with something approaching open contempt. What the actual fuck? He’d never spoken a word with any of them in his whole entire life.

Swallowing the last bite of the ridiculously bland vegetable barley soup, Patrick frowned as it sat in his stomach like a weight, mingling with the increasingly familiar anxiety that welled up, black and viscous as it spread through him. There was something he didn’t know, that was not a fucking surprise, but these people, these strangers, did and that drove Patrick absolutely crazy. 

Yanking his headphones from his ears, he let them rest around his neck as he moved with a determined stride to drop off both his dirty dishes and trash before refilling his cup. There were no lids, of course, as if there ever were, so he underfilled it a bit and slipped his sunglasses back on before he turned to leave. The tinted lenses darkened the place considerably, but not enough for him to be able to actually block anything out, and he could, once again, see the knowing smiles and open stares, but couldn’t recognize any fucking faces. 

The titter of laughter reached his ears from a nearby table and Patrick knew, logically, that he wasn’t being laughed at; at least that was what he told himself. Logic, however, did not factor in with the anxiety that was gnawing at his insides and shifting beneath his skin. Gripping the cheap styrofoam cup in his hand, Patrick spun on his heel, only to crash directly into someone. Someone who was far taller and far more pissed off than he was. The water that sloshed over the edge of his cup was freezing against his fingers and he nearly dropped the entire thing. 

“Watch your ass there, Coke Boy.” The words were dirty, dripping with disdain and blatant mockery and the person who spoke was gone before Patrick could even register anything about them save for a glimpse of faded chinos and a pair of hideous navy blue boat shoes. 

The words, that voice, somehow brought memories that he hadn’t even realized that he was holding crashing to the forefront of his mind. They were fractured, distorted through a haze of alcohol and ugly laughter, and Patrick nearly threw up his unsatisfying lunch all over the speckled green linoleum. Physically fighting the urge, he dropped his head and headed out the doors, although he could still hear the ringing of voices and laughter echoing behind him like a shadow. 

Leaving the building was no escape, not really, and Patrick could swear he felt the eyes of every person he passed on him, hear the whispers as they walked by, giving him a wide berth. He told himself the stinging in his eyes and the tightness in his chest was from the wind that had picked up while he was eating, maybe if he thought it enough it would become real. 

The panic had crested washing over him in a wave at the images in his mind straightened themselves out into something resembling an order, an order he didn’t like much. It should be a relief to remember, to have the confirmation he hadn’t lost his marbles but, oh, he hated the fractured memories even more than the black-out.

Patrick broke into a run, clumsy and slightly awkward as he wove through the students that were scattered along the sidewalks and by the time he had buzzed through the front door and stumbled up the three flights of stairs to Gabe’s door, he was panting, struggling for breath with wet cheeks and one hand braced on his knee as he doubled over, pounding against the surprisingly solid wood with the other. 

“What the fuck? What do you w- Patrick? What’s wrong?” Gabe’s tone had gone from ornery and gruff to beyond concerned once he pulled the door open, the smile falling from his face in an instant as he took in Patrick, red faced and gasping for air in front of his door. 

“I need. Can I come in?” The words were forced out on squeaky gasps, barely a whisper and at the same time ringing in Patrick’s ears. Gabe didn’t say anything, but he nodded as he stepped back to let Patrick pass. As soon as the door shut behind him, Patrick collapsed in the nearest chair, a mess of tears, ragged breaths and snot as he spilled the details that he could remember about Friday night without pausing once.   
Then he fell apart. 

Once Patrick had collected himself just enough to be able to draw a breath, red cheeked and snotty with glasses that were spattered with salt spots from the tears flicking off of his lashes, he pulled them off and swiped his hands over his eyes before tugging his hat off and pulling his hands through his hair, feeling almost a little ridiculous.

“Jesus Christ, Patrick.” The voice wasn’t his friend’s, and he was confused for more than a minute as he blinked and squinted, at the lump in a chair in the corner of the room. 

“Hi, Pete.” There was an air of dejection in his tone, behind the hurt and quiver from a deep breath as Patrick pulled his legs to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. Gabe shook his head, and settled on the floor beside him, all long limbs and horrific neon hoodie, draping an arm over Patrick’s shoulders and pulling him against his side. He smelled like nicotine, coffee and cloves; the spice not the pretentious as fuck cigarettes. It was comforting though, especially after such a shit morning. And night. Hell, it had been a shitty fucking week, and it was only Tuesday. 

“I’m assuming you don’t wanna talk about it anymore, huh Trick?” The endearment made Patrick pissy almost as much as it made him smile, it was always a tossup as to which reaction it would be. Today… today it was neither. Patrick just sighed, sounding ridiculously small and far younger than his twenty years and rested his bare head on Gabe’s shoulder. 

Pete watched wearily from his chair in the corner, taking in the scene that unfolded before him with a sharp, clear gaze, far more observant than most people gave him credit for. He hadn’t been to class all week and had honestly only showed up at Gabe’s room that morning, armed with two cream and green cups, one containing more syrups and cream than was probably necessary, and the other black and unsweetened because Gabe just couldn’t have nice things, to discuss the fucking surreal weekend that they’d had. 

They had gotten maybe halfway through their recollections of the party, and Gabe through two and a half cigarettes, sitting in the open window like a goddamn tool, before the frantic banging on the door started. The cigarette that had been in his hand quickly vanished into his coffee cup, with a hiss before the lid was replaced and he lept out of the window as though he had been caught smoking crack with an underaged hooker. Gabe was fucking strange. 

Pete knew, pretty quickly, that he hadn’t been noticed by Patrick. The fact that the kid had nearly dissolved into tears as soon as the door was shut, was basically the main sign. He’d curled up in Gabe’s stupid fucking chair in the corner, a very fucking bizarre fuzzy, pink, camo blanket wrapped tightly around him to ward off the frigid air and apparently the camo worked. Or Patrick was really that blind. If he was a betting man, he’d have put his money on the latter. 

As much as he shouldn’t, Pete had a moment of satisfaction as he saw that Patrick was still wearing both his hat and his hoodie, even though he knew that, according to Gabe, the blond had more of both items of his own than he probably should. Pete had watched. He had watched and listened and catalogued and gotten far more pissed than he probably should have about the situation. But he knew Patrick now. The kid had slept in his bed and was wearing his clothes and nobody fucking deserved whatever the fuck it was that had happened to him, or what seemed to be in store, for that matter. 

“Pretty sure this is the only time your assumptions would be correct.” There it was, the tiniest bit of a spark behind the words, the barest glimmer that Patrick was actually okay even after sobbing like a fourteen-year old girl at a One Direction concert. Well, okay maybe not okay YET, but he could be. Eventually. Gabe laughed, rather undeterred by the blond’s obvious snark, and simply ruffled Patrick’s hair through his hat which...was a bit weird. It also earned Gabe a glare that could very well have fallen a lesser man. 

“Touch my head again, I fucking dare you, Saporta.” Although there was little venom in his voice, Patrick yanked the hat down over his ears and shuffled effectively hiding the bits of hair that were peeking out from beneath it. It was a pity. Pete tugged his hideous blanket tighter around his shoulders and shifted to sit on the floor, scooting weirdly closer to the other two. Sticking his purple socked foot out, he shoved it against Gabe’s shin, garnering a lazy smile. 

“What, Wentz?” 

“What, Wentz?” Pete parroted his words back at him, shooting Patrick a knowing look. “Don’t what me. I brought you coffee, we were gonna get pizza. You can’t fucking tease like that. Patrick, you do like pizza, right?”

Patrick gave the question very little thought before bouncing his head in a nod. “Of course I do. But it has to be veggie.” There was no real argument from Pete or Gabe on that, and they were both content to let Patrick call the shots for at least a little bit. Some seemingly inconsequential factoid from one of his intro law classes about allowing victims a sense of control filtered through Pete’s mind, and he shoved it back with another glance at Patrick, huddled in a borrowed hoodie and hat and leaning against Gabe’s side, his now bare feet shoved under another corner of Pete’s camo. Victim didn’t seem the right word and yet from what he had seen, and what Pete had seen, that is exactly what he was no matter how much they all tried to deny it. Shaking off that train of thought, Pete tugged his phone from his pocket and quickly placed their pizza order, adding some cheese bread, sodas and dessert just because. 

“It’ll be an hour. Star Wars while we wait?” It was not an unusual request and at that moment, Pete would have done just about anything to make the kid smile, although he couldn’t quite pinpoint why. His suggestion seemed to work, and the corners of Patrick’s mouth twitched up almost hesitantly, his shoulders relaxing for what seemed to be the first time since he had entered the room. 

“That sounds kind of perfect.” Although his voice was quiet, it was genuine and Gabe nodded his approval, reaching behind him to yank a pile of blankets down from the bed he was leaning against. Pete shimmied over closer to the nightstand, fishing for the remotes from his spot on the floor, and yearly yelping when he finally grabbed them. He hit the necessary buttons and was rewarded with a very familiar scroll filling the television that was sat in between Gabe’s shelves. Never being one to stand on ceremony, or even give much of a fuck about personal space, Pete wriggled until he was sitting flush beside Patrick, sandwiching the smaller guy between him and Gabe. Judging by the lack of an elbow to Pete’s ribs, Patrick didn’t complain. He was small and soft and warm as hell, despite the cold outside and, in this moment anyway, he was safe. That was all Pete could ask for because he had a feeling, and his feelings were very rarely wrong, that he was in for some serious fall out. Might as well enjoy the calm before the storm for as long as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can be found at Scmi-sweet and AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet over on Tumblr, come say hi!

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us on Tumblr at scmi-sweet and AllKindsOfPlatinumAndPercocet for questions, discussions and general fangirling. Come over and say hello!


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